


Better Late Than Never

by Silex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apologies, Childhood Memories, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Post-Canon, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 11:24:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/pseuds/Silex
Summary: Petunia gets a letter in the mail that leads to an encounter that gives her a lot to think about.





	Better Late Than Never

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sinking Beatrice (Beatrice_Sank)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Sank/gifts).

Petunia stared down at the letter on the table.

It was addressed to her.

Ten years after it was all over someone, some awful, terrible person had to bring it all back.

Ten years since Harry, all grown up, looking far older than someone the same age as Dudley had any right to, moved out of the house. Dudley had gotten a job, not at Grunnings, much to Vernon’s disappointment, and moved out as well.

It had taken time for her and Vernon to get used to having such a big house all to themselves.

Not having to pick up after Dudley, or cook meals for him and his friends, or take care of his laundry left Petunia with far too much free time.

All of that free time had been necessary for her to adjust to normalcy, for at the very end, Harry’s war had touched the whole family, despite her and Vernon’s best efforts to keep it away.

They’d all been changed by it and in the ten years since she’d decided that it was mostly for the better.

Now, with the letter sitting on the table she wasn’t so sure.

Vernon was red in the face, dying to do something about it, pick it up and throw it in the trash or burn it because of how awful it had her feeling and she loved him so much for that, his wanting to protect her from anything that might do her harm, even a letter.

But he didn’t lay a finger on it because it was addressed to her and he wouldn’t touch anything of hers without permission.

She loved him even more for that.

When she picked up the letter and started to open it Vernon cleared his throat loudly and left the kitchen, grumbling about wanting to see what was on the news.

The penmanship of the letter was lovely, as Petunia had imagined it would be and, try as she might to hate the woman who that handwriting belonged to, Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she couldn’t.

It was an apology.

Never in her life had she imagined an apology for any of what she and her husband had been put through. She’d learned early on that those people only thought of themselves and never considered the inconvenience they caused good, normal people. They even had a nasty name for them, Muggles. Lily had called her that name when they argued as children, flaunting her strangeness as though it were something to be proud of.

Reminding Petunia of how much she envied her younger sister.

That horrible, nasty word used by horrible, nasty people wasn’t in the letter, though she’d expected it to be there, ruining the apology, a dark blot like a fly drowning in her morning tea.

It wasn’t there at all.

The apology was all politeness and poorly veiled arrogance, telling her about how important Harry was and how much he meant to ‘the Wizarding world’ as though those people couldn’t bring themselves to acknowledge that they lived in the exact same world as the normal people they looked down on.

It was still an apology though, for not making an effort to make her a greater part of the other half of Harry’s life, as though she would have wanted to, and for getting her dragged into something she wanted no part of.

Except at the end of the letter was an invitation, just for her, to visit the school that Harry had gone to, and Lily before him, for a tour over the summer.

The school that had been denied to her as a child.

Looking at the letter she made up her mind.

Wrapped up in haughty formality, the awkwardly worded statement that it was ‘_part of an outreach effort between our students and their families, who may not have experienced a traditional magical education_’.

It was a lot of words to not say the ugly word muggle, but it was something.

Petunia told Vernon her intent and he accepted it without a word. He wasn’t happy, not at all, but he wasn’t going to tell her no and she thanked him, though he claimed that he had no clue what she was thanking him for.

When the date arrived she went down to the train station and stared forlornly at the nothingness before her. Throngs of people pushing past her, ignoring one helpless, lost looking woman.

Logically it was a joke, a horrible, sick joke and she should call Vernon to pick her up, which he would, without him saying a word. He’d take her to some nice restaurant, treat her to lunch and act like it was a normal day out, because that was how he protected her and Dudley all those years, by being so steadfastly, wonderfully, normal.

It wasn’t a joke though, because she and Vernon had left Harry the same way all those years ago.

Platform 9 ¾ was real, somewhere.

“Mrs. Dursley,” a clipped voice came from behind her.

Petunia whirled around, unable to suppress a small shout of surprise.

“I’m Headmistress Minerva McGonagall,” said the severe looking old woman, stooped with age, but full of steel that made her seem far taller.

Or that might just have been her high, but crumpled hat, exactly what Petunia imagined an old witch would wear. All in charcoal gray and black she was what Petunia had always imagined witches as. Petunia drew herself up to her full height, somehow feeling small in front of this woman, and held out her hand to prove that she wasn’t intimidated.

McGonagall shook her hand, firmly with what Vernon would have called a good handshake. It was the sort of handshake that you couldn’t help but respect the owner of, even if you didn’t want to.

Even if you resented them for everything else about them.

Petunia’s opinion of the witch went up slightly.

“Where are the other parents?” Petunia asked with equal formality.

“It’s just you,” McGonagall said in a tone that left no room for argument.

Petunia decided that McGonagall must have been a right terror as headmistress and allowed herself the ghost of a smile. If Harry had crossed this woman she certainly wouldn’t have coddled him, so that was one good thing to know.

“Consider this a test run,” McGonagall continued, “If we’re not on good terms with the family that raised Harry Potter than this effort’s all for naught. Children aren’t stupid and they’ll know right away there’s a reason we’re not teaching them about the family of the most famous wizard of our time.”

Petunia nearly asked who, but of course McGonagall was talking about Harry.

“Your opinion is important to me because I know you won’t be awed by any of what you see,” McGonagall looked her right in the eye and Petunia held her ground, difficult as it was, “I didn’t agree with Albus for sending Harry to live with you, but I can’t deny the results. In the end it all worked out for the best, but I can’t ignore the means used to get to that end. We put you and your family in danger and for that I apologize to you. The thought that your son was nearly attacked by a dementor…”

McGonagall shuddered.

Petunia didn’t ask what a dementor was. Dudley had nightmares for months after that, maybe longer. Petunia didn’t know because he’d refused to talk about it. Or perhaps she and Vernon hadn’t listened, at least not in the right way.

“I…” Petunia hesitated, the amount of hurt she could cause this woman by refusing the apology. Except McGonagall looked like she could shrug it off. She didn’t expect an apology, which made the decision easier, “I accept your apology.”

Formal, awkward, but they were hardly having a conversation, just formalities before one.

“Follow me,” McGonagall turned briskly and walked right through the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

Petunia hesitated, but only for a moment. She wasn’t going to let herself appear a coward or foolish in front of some witch.

The most she allowed herself to do was to close her eyes at the last moment, trying not to think about how she must have looked to the passersby.

There was no impact, no anything, which made her misstep.

McGonagall caught her arm.

“This is the Hogwarts express,” McGonagall used the arm that wasn’t supporting Petunia to gesture at a brilliant red steam locomotive.

Aside from…no Petunia decided, there was nothing about it at all that looked particularly magical.

McGonagall seemed to be waiting for her to say something.

“It’s a nice enough train,” Petunia said, shrugging away from McGonagall and brushing herself off. Vernon certainly would have had more to say. He knew trains better than she did and would have known if it really was a particularly sturdy example. She just had to go with her judgment, which told her that it was a solid and real looking train, nothing whimsical and fanciful about it.

So far her introduction to magic was that it was surprisingly practical and businesslike, which she found tolerable.

“Let’s step inside. There’s tea and snacks while we talk about things during the ride, I’m sure you’ll have questions,” by her tone McGonagall expected questions and Petunia certainly had them.

They didn’t even need to wait to sit down for her to ask them.

“Why, after all this time did you decide to invite me here?” Petunia asked, refusing McGonagall’s help getting onboard the train.

Inside the train was worn, but clean looking. In fact it smelled freshly cleaned, which made sense. It was summer, the students were out of school so there was time to neaten things up.

McGonagall sat down and motioned for Petunia to follow suit.

“You and your husband were the ones who raised Harry, so much of who he is was shaped by you, which I think may have been Albus’ plan, and we know nothing about you,” McGonagall looked at Petunia, her expression grave, “We have a class called ‘Muggle Studies’ –”

Petunia drew in a sharp breath at the word.

“This,” McGonagall said, angrily, but with a certain enthusiasm, “This is what I’ve told my professors. So many of our students come from non-magical families these days, or mixed families. Last year, one of our third year students, Gertrude Smyth, a Slytherin if you’ll believe it, joined the advanced class despite being from a mixed family and she failed. What does it mean if a class that’s supposed to be educating our students about how non-magical people live is arranged in such a way that someone who’s lived it their whole life doesn’t pass?”

Petunia didn’t know what a Slytherin was, or why that mattered, but she knew right away what the answer was, something so obvious that of course the headmistress witch couldn’t see it, “The class is rubbish.”

“Exactly,” McGonagall sighed, “The class is out of date by years, focusing on concepts that sound important, but aren’t. Gertrude went to the head of her house of course, but she also told all of her friends. I ended up with half of the mixed and Muggle-born students and all of the Slytherins standing outside my office, demanding that I remove a professor for a list of grievances that took up three roles of parchment.”

Petunia smiled. As much as she hated the word ‘muggle’ and how it was peppered throughout the conversation, hearing that it was causing the headmistress of Hogwarts such an issue brought with it a certain spiteful pleasure.

“If students are going home to their parents with stories like that,” McGonagall continued, “Then it’s clear that any effort at improving relations between the wizarding and non-magical worlds isn’t going to work.”

“I could have told you that,” Petunia said, not bothering to suppress a spiteful smirk. If she’d been invited to give her two cents on what a non-magical person thought of wizardry McGonagall was going to get an earful.

McGonagall gave her a thin smile, “I know. The situation isn’t helped by the fact that Harry Potter, during the vanishingly rare interviews he’s willing to grace the press with, has no comment on his family when asked questions about being raised by Muggles. It creates a very bad picture overall in what should be a chance at looking at the similarities and differences between us. There’s a place for conversation, but no opportunity to engage in it.”

Petunia had a great deal she could say about that and would be more than happy to tell McGonagall everything she ever wanted to know about Harry as a boy, but the witch didn’t allow her to speak.

“This is the reason I’m bringing you to the school. You’ll be the first non-magical parent or guardian to get a tour, but others will follow. You’ll get a chance to talk to all of the professors, so that they can prepare for the questions non-magical families might have and how they’ll likely respond to what they encounter,” McGonagall’s smile grew acid, “You’re the most superlative example of a mugg – a non-magical person that any of us could think of who’s still had experience with magic.”

Superlatively non-magical, Petunia could tell Vernon about that and he’d smile. It was a compliment and something the two of them could claim with pride, even if it wasn’t intended to be such.

“I see,” Petunia said with equal dryness, “Don’t expect me to be impressed by any of it. Lot of nonsense if you ask me.”

“As Headmistress I’ve also had the chance to go through some transcripts and records kept by the previous Headmasters, to see if any of them had thought to attempt such a program,” McGonagall spoke softly, carefully weighing each word, “They hadn’t. More than that there was an understandable precedent for refusing to humor any interest a non-magical individual might have in coming to Hogwarts, understandable as there’s nothing of use we could teach them.”

Magic was useless, or worse, Petunia was quite happy to nod in unspoken agreement with that statement, waiting for McGonagall to get to the point.

“On the other hand, there’s much they could teach us. Which is why,” McGonagall paused to fix her with a grave stare that dropped the temperature of the cozy little train car by several degrees, “The professors will be answering your questions and asking those of their own as well. I haven’t told anyone this yet, so if you refuse, it’s just between the two of us, but during the school year I want you to visit as a guest lecturer for our Muggle Studies class to explain to them what a genuine non-magical person does to get by without magic throughout their day and anything else you think that a witch or wizard should know about your world.”

Petunia felt lightheaded, perhaps with rage over being asked if she wanted to be paraded around like some trained freak to impress a bunch of magical brats, or perhaps with the memories of all the bitterness she had felt towards her sister as a little girl.

A little girl who had cried herself to sleep when her sister had gone away to school and come back with such amazing stories. A little girl whose parents had been so delighted with glimpses into the world that was unique to their youngest daughter that they seemed to forget that their other child wanted to be seen as special as well.

How would that girl have responded to such an offer?

What would have changed if she’d known that years later she might get a second chance at what she’d wanted so badly and been denied?

Petunia knew what her answer should be, to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but she couldn’t help thinking about the little girl she’d once been.

Years spent convincing herself that she didn’t want something, only to have it offered now.

“We’ll see,” Petunia said at last, “I doubt any of what I’m going to see or hear will impress me.”

“Thank you,” McGonagall said with such sincerity that Petunia couldn’t help but let it influence the decision she was going to have to make.

At least this time she was making it for herself.


End file.
